


But Baby did you ever know the truth

by DefenstrationProtestation (Sand_Cursive)



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Default name MC, Drunk sex maybe, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Gender-neutral Reader, M/M, Multiple Partners, Nonmonogamous, Other, PWP, Penetrative Sex, Requited but Unrequited love, Unrequited Love, Yuki the name is Yuki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:53:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25501681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sand_Cursive/pseuds/DefenstrationProtestation
Summary: Friends with benefits.Asmo cries during sex.
Relationships: Asmodeus (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader, Asmodeus/Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)
Comments: 35
Kudos: 168





	But Baby did you ever know the truth

**Author's Note:**

> Let us have more Asmo content, cowards.
> 
> (Not real explicit until the end).

The first time you accept his advances, he prefaces the night with a warning. Almost an afterthought, so casual it must be routine. 

“Try not to fall _too_ in love with me, darling~” 

The laugh that startles out of you is short, huffed, bumps your throat up against his smiling mouth. He leans back, grinning, as you stare up at him half-astonished. You can’t be surprised by it — even as short as you’ve known each other, his vain self-confidence refuses to be overlooked. He purses his lips and blows you a kiss.

The change is instant, your expression morphing into mischievous amusement. “But what if I can’t _help_ it?” Lift your arms and loop them easily around his neck. The soft flesh of your thumb presses below his nape, rubbing delicate circles into skin. You’re joking; obvious. The idea too far out of mind for you to take him seriously. That’s fine for now.

You just don’t realize what danger you’re in, yet.

“Oh, I know it’s going to be _difficult_ ,” he says, peering down at you with low-lidded eyes. The pride of his golden lashes flutters, catches just the edge of the light in a way that he knows draws attention to the thickly-rooted fullness. You don’t disappoint, gaze on him so heated if he weren’t a demon he thinks he might catch fire. “But I’d prefer not to send you home _too_ broken-hearted.” He isn’t _cruel_ , after all. 

Well. Not unless you _want_ him to be.

“How sweet of you.” Your fingers are inching up, higher, scratching lightly at the base of his skull. Silken strands slipping against your skin, soft and scented. He can feel your nails digging towards the roots and anticipation makes him flush. “I promise I’ll look after myself.”

And then you fist your hand in his hair and drag him down. 

That earlier gaze was accurate prelude. Everything is heat and touch and fever; a spark that catches, instant. A trail that he chases with mounting hunger, with mouth and hands grasping as the entire room dissolves into that precious, sweet relief. The warm press of your skin, the perfume of your shampoo. Drawing him deeper and deeper into the gorgeous comfort of your body.

Oh. You’re a _very_ eager lover. 

Mmm. Yes. He _likes_ that. (But of course, there’s so _little_ that he doesn’t). Matches your enthusiasm; every touch, every kiss, every hungry embrace. What an _exciting_ surprise!

He thought he'd known what to expect when tempting you. The clues provided by your raised brows, your slowly flushing face. But _this_. All embarrassment is left at the threshold; your innocent naivety doesn't translate to the bedroom. You pull him close and close and _closer_ , too impatient to bother stripping fully before you’re already diving towards the main event.

He’s used to this, used to inspiring such a gnawing need that the whole world is eclipsed, everything reduced to that animal impulse; physical sensation. There’s nothing novel about your desperation, no, but. It’s still so. _Deeply_. Gratifying. 

Oh, this is going to be so _fun_.

He’s lived too long, _done too much_ , to be introduced to any new tricks, but there’s something to be said for teaching them to such an avid pupil. Delighted to follow any avenue that will sate your billowing appetite you let him take the lead, let him dictate your pleasure to you while you encourage a frantic pace. Every exclamation singing praise, hymns laid before his carnal altar. 

That first night sounds come out of your mouth half-surprised, like you’ve never made them before in your life.

His very _favourite_ music. 

When he wakes up, glowing satisfaction already fading, you aren’t in his bed. But that’s fine.

He’s used to that, too. 

* * *

He doesn’t quite know what to make of you. 

It’s a familiar arrangement, falling into each other’s arms at the first drop of temptation; colour bleeding into water, bright and spreading. A heated look, a prolonged caress. Silent signals that are becoming conversations, phrases learned, pressing towards one delicious, sinful goal. Once, an outright invitation when you had turned to him in the middle of an absurdly boring movie night and whispered, leaning down towards his ear, “Let’s go to your room.” 

You are enticingly prone to temptation, and he can’t resist the urge. Well. He _is_ a demon, after all. 

But.

You seek him out. 

He’s no stranger to partners coming up to him, chasing after the next liaison, trying to monopolize his time when they realize he’s the best they’re _ever_ going to get. Except. When you find him, sex is never the first thing on your mind. He would know.   
  
He can sense it, when his hands are trailing up your thighs, when he leans too far into your space, sharing air. The way the lust lifts off your skin, scents the air with some musky, spiced perfume that has every hair on his body tingling and alert. His brothers can recognize it too, if their sudden scattered interest is any indication. But he always sees it _first_ , the tendrils of your desire almost reaching for him, trying to trap him in the net of your hunger. 

And he so _loves_ to be caught.

So it throws him when you approach, have nothing but the most innocent of intentions when you wave at him, flag him down, try to catch his attention. You want something from him, you _must_. 

He just hasn’t figured out what it is, yet. 

“What’s this?” 

He looks from you to the little plastic bauble you’ve tossed on his desk, interrupting a _very_ cute doodle of a little bear. It’s gaudy: pink and hard and _covered_ in craft-grade glitter. Already flaking offensively on his opened notebook. 

The pages are going to be shedding sparkles for _weeks_.

You grin at him, looking immensely self-satisfied. “I saw it at Majolish. It reminded me of you.”

“Oh darling, I don’t know what you could _possibly_ mean.” There’s an edge there. Singsong-y, voice pretty even when his words aren’t. “I can’t imagine what I have in common with something so tacky.”

You aren’t thrown by the warning at all. The curl of your lips ticks upwards. “Not tacky. _Fun_.”

Ah. So it’s a matter of bad taste. Goodness, if this is representative of yours, it’s a lucky thing they put him in charge of your wardrobe. A full closet for your stay, courtesy of the most stylish demon in the Devildom. He shudders to think what you’d be walking around in if they’d let _you_ choose. 

“I can’t believe you went to Majolish without me!” he says, electing to ignore the . . . hairclip? He prods it away with the end of his panda-topped pen, before it can contaminate him any further. “Especially when you could have had the best fashion advice in all three realms!”

“I didn’t want to bother you for something like that. Besides, Levi was already going anyway.” You shrug, picking up what, at closer inspection, looks like it might be trying for a bow. “It was easier to just tag along with him.”

“You went with _Levi_? What was _he_ getting at Majolish?” 

“I think his sweats had a hole in them? I didn’t ask.” You lean down, insert yourself into his bubble of space. You smell like sandalwood and jasmine, layered over the clean linen of the House of Lamentation’s detergent. It’s strange. Familiar but not. 

You reach forwards, card your fingers through his bangs. Normally he would shake you off (messing with his coif? In _public?)_. But you follow the curl, careful and deliberate. Brush it just slightly off his forehead to expose both sparkling rubellite eyes. “So pretty,” you mutter, nodding to yourself.

Well. Maybe you aren’t a lost cause after all. 

You step back, hold up your D.D.D. so you can snap a picture. He immediately shifts, conversation interrupted. Turning to some of his favourite poses, running through them like a checklist. Head tilt, heart hands, framing his perfect face on one soft palm, new nails on full display. 

“See?” You turn your screen to him. Ah. So that’s why his hair wasn’t falling back into his face. He frowns up at you, but you’re focused on the bright images in your hand, swiping too quick. He’s about to give you a piece of his mind, you can’t just —Oh wait, he looks spectacular go back. “It looks _adorable_.” 

“ _Of course it does_.” You’ve rigged the test. He can make _anything_ look good. (Although, from that angle the sparkle really does bring out the colour of his hair). 

_Diavolo_ , that coarse, gritty glitter is probably tangled in his bangs, now.

“So why were you at Majolish? I know it wasn’t for _this_.” He taps the clip, can feel the uneven _tug_ on a few strands. Ugh. Like a cheap plastic death-trap.

“Oh, I wanted some new clothes. Something more my style, you know?”

Well this he has to see. “Show me.”

You look down at your uniform. Back up to him. He rolls his eyes. “We live together, darling. You can show me _later_.”

Honestly he isn’t sure what he expected. Based on that clip (still in his hair, thank you very much. The fastener is of such atrocious quality it has the potential to do damage if he doesn’t remove it _very_ carefully), maybe something bright and glittery and covered in frills? But it’s not. 

It’s infinitely worse.

“Oh, let me try it on for you!” You don’t wait for a response, hands already dropping to the belt of your jacket. And while he’s always more than happy for an impromptu strip show, the thought of that shiny polyester getting anywhere near your skin . . . 

That outfit is a sin. (And not even one of the _fun_ ones). 

Still. That doesn’t mean he has to stop you right away. He watches as you drop clothes to the floor, clearly unconcerned with the impending wrinkles. (If Mammon’s uniform is anything to go by, no one is actually going to care all that much . . . Although hopefully it’ll be covered up by your coat and he won’t actually have to _see_ it).

There's no bashfulness here, no ceremony. (After that first night, when you'd verified the authenticity of his seductions, knew he really wanted it, wanted _you._ Well. He loves the new confidence, although he does miss the way he flustered you. _A little_. It was just _so cute)._ You stretch, entirely un-self-conscious. Let your shirt slide off your shoulders, reveal that swathe of soft skin, the freckling of markings along your back where he’d tagged you like a map. And, ooh, there, just to the right of your neck: that blooming bruise that he’d sucked into existence when you started desperately thrusting back into him, trying to force him impossibly deeper. The sheer force of that slam, as he’d bottomed out in you, everything heat and breath and shuddering pleasure—

His hand lands at your waistband, discouraging your fingers. “Asmo, what . . .”

“You looked like you could use some help.” 

You huff, settling familiar against his chest. Turn to look at him, his chin tucked against your shoulder, and for a moment the reality of your face is overlaid with a memory; sweat-slicked bangs, burning gaze. “Why does it feel like you’re going to be less than helpful?”

“What do you mean, darling? I’m sure we can both agree that I’m _very_ good at getting pants on the floor.” Punctuated with the slide of your zipper, the press of fabric as he drags it below your hips. 

“Hm. I think the issue is what happens after that.”

He nips down, blows air against the exposed line of your collarbone. “I just thought you might like a hand.” Dragging his fingers down over your waist, the jut of your hip bone, over the curve of your ass. “But since we’re already so _close_ . . .”

You roll your eyes, bend over to reach for the first article of clothing from your hideous new outfit. The shirt probably? (Oh _wow_ he can’t tell what it is). He would be distracted by the way you press back against him, but.

It’s just. So. _Awful_.

“Oh honey, no.” He lifts an arm, pushes the fabric away from you before you can even begin to slide it on. “Let me take you shopping.”

“What? Asmo, I literally just went.” 

"Oh, but it would be so much _fun!_ Let me pick out an outfit for you, you know I have an eye for it."

You purse your lips, considering. Unfair of you to draw attention to your mouth like that. It makes him want to kiss you. But he won’t be dissuaded. (There’s no _way_ he’s letting you go anywhere dressed in _that)_. "Fine. _If_ you return the favour."

"You're going to choose something for _me?_ " And isn’t that a daunting thought.

"What? Don't you trust me?"

He leans back just enough to look at you, unimpressed. "Darling look at this atrocity in my hair. Are you looking at it?” Shakes his head for emphasis. Glitter rains down on you, and you blink against the assault.“Do you see it?"

You blow the sparkles back up at him. He sputters, frowning, and you take your chance. Light a kiss, easy and unhurried and without motivation at the corner of his mouth. He’s arrested for a moment, thrown by your unclear objective, before he turns just slightly and meets you. 

You can always go shopping another day.

* * *

“Sorry, Asmo. I said I would play the new Monster-Maid Octopus Ankle-smasher game with him tonight.”

He frowns, letting one hand drift along your arm. “You’d rather play some silly video game than let me make all your dreams come true?”

“What?” you ask, cocking an eyebrow at him. “You think you’re the only thing I dream about?”

“Darling after a night with me, what else _is_ there?”

Funny. He usually doesn't have to work so hard, with you. A lingering touch, a heated glance. Words whispered with that thinly veiled implication. Maybe he's been getting too spoiled. Complacent. Thank Diavolo for his wide, wide repertoire of seductions. For something like this, he'll probably—

“Well, I heard you and Solomon are pretty close . . .”

 _Oh_ , are you suggesting what he thinks you are? “Don’t tease me, I could make it happen right now.”

"That's not what I meant." A soft breath, at least half-exasperated. Not an encouraging sign. “Asmo, I _promised_. I’m not going to flake out on Levi just because you can fuck my brains out better than anybody in all three realms. Besides, he booked me in advance.”

“Then I’m booking you for the rest of the month!”

“No.” Not even a moment’s hesitation. _Rude_.

“What? Why not? I’m giving you plenty of notice and everything!”

You sigh, pulling him into your arms. Pat him lightly on the head. It might be a ploy to prevent you from having to look into his _incredibly_ persuasive pout, but he allows himself to nuzzle into your touch. Reciprocates, hands wandering up along the curve of your spine, counting, unconscious. “Look, I know you have other partners. Why don’t you spend the night with one of them instead? Call your sorcerer.”

“But you’re _here_ ,” he says, voice trending towards a whine. Oh. Not attractive, if your lowering brows are any indication. Maybe if he—  
  
“ _Goodnight_ Asmo.” You release him, wiggling out of his embrace. Turn quick on your heel and walk away, never once looking back. 

Well. How cold. (But _smart._ You know he would have gotten you with that demon-dog pout).

He flips open his D.D.D., frowning at your back. “Solomon, what are you doing tonight?”

* * *

It's getting _inconvenient_. You blow him off to spend time with his brothers, of all things, when he could be applying hard-practiced skills to you that would make you forget your own name. And he’s not so selfish he needs to keep you, a monopoly. But how could anything else compare with the promise of an erotic night spent in his arms?

During the next House movie viewing, you let Mammon cuddle up to you on one side when Belphie sadistically chooses a particularly gruesome horror. His older brother tucked up tight against you, head buried in your neck, secure within the circle of your arms. Massaging gentle fingers in his scalp, motions so tender he’s nearly melting under your touch. You won't leave him, shivering, on the couch to go hook up in Asmo’s room (or hell, on the love seat, if you really want to stay so bad). Just pull his scumbag brother closer, drop a soft kiss on his temple and murmur something sweet that he isn’t close enough to hear.

You bake with Beel sometimes after classes. He can hear the two of you, giggling, your voices loud and happy and floating down the empty halls. Shrieking, laughter. When he pops his head in you’re covered head to toe in icing, drops dripping tantalizing down the neck of your shirt. Beel leans over towards you, licks one long stripe up your cheek and you squeal, eyes sparkling. Drag him down and _suck_ the mess off of his chest, fabric lifting against your mouth.

And it’s sloppy and disgusting ( _sugar-sticky and soiled_ ) but. He dances inside, shoes sliding graceful on the splattered tile. Reaches out to you — keeping a careful arm’s distance away, of course — and follows that trail down below your collar. You start at his touch, shocked from your intimate moment with his younger brother. Cock an eyebrow at him when he offers to help you get ‘cleaned up’. 

You wave him away, _threaten_ him with a spatula full of creamy sugar too close to his hair. Ward him from the kitchen more effectively than magic. You’re not done, there’s so much more to do, Beel is _more_ than capable of helping you himself. And frankly he can’t blame you, can’t deny his brother’s appeal but. It rankles.

Something about being passed over, he’s sure. 

When he leaves, he tries to comfort himself with the relief that at least nothing’s going to get on his clothes.

Satan steals you for the library. Tempts you in with thick leather-bound books; apparently a more enticing lure than he’d realized. He follows you in, once, after you’ve extracted a very strict promise from him to be good. Spends the entire time flitting from stack to stack, runs his hands over the spines and contemplates rearranging everything to fit his more aesthetic sensibilities.

Satan would _kill_ him, though. 

You beckon him over when you notice him sulking privately in a corner; no one’s appreciating him and there aren’t even any mirrors in here so he can do it properly himself. Settle him in your armchair before you drop comfortable into his lap. 

Now _this_ he can work with. 

He slots his head against yours, rests his chin on the line of bone. A direct view of your pages, though he has no intention of reading. Winds his arms around your waist and lets his hands splay against your stomach. Inching, just slightly, resting high on your ribs. Kisses settled against your cheek, your temple, your ear. You shift in his lap, too much friction for a demon already in a constant state of half-arousal. 

You kick him out of the library when the grinding of his erection against you becomes too much obvious distraction. Satan doesn’t say anything, but Asmodeus catches the aggravated look on his face. He’s usually able to keep his temper to an un-demon degree but even this might be pushing it.

Fine. The library was boring anyway.

He peeks in the next time the two of you sequester yourselves in there, _all on your own_. He doesn’t really expect you to be doing anything too interesting, but maybe by this point you’ve come to your senses, are ready to accept a more gratifying invitation.

Satan’s head is in your lap.

It took him a moment to see; he’d almost thought you’d been left to your own devices. (Laughably unlikely. His brothers are too helplessly interested in you, too hopelessly in love to ever leave you alone. It’s almost cute, in a pathetic, hapless puppy kind of way). 

Your hands are in his hair and you’re . . . talking to him. No, not quite. _Reading_ to him, from the book held open in one hand. Your voice is low and measured, that soothing, regular quality of a rhythm hitting stride. It’s . . . nice. 

Even from the doorway, he can see the expression on his brother’s face. Clear, untroubled. Maybe for the first time in he can’t guess how long, honest and openly relaxed. 

He doesn’t enter. Just stands out in the hallway, listening. 

An outsider, looking in.

It speaks to a different kind of intimacy. You and Asmodeus are close, certainly, but. Not like _that_. His chest goes concave, hollow, his limbs growing still and numb as all sensation is sucked into the vaccuum of that gravity.

(How strange. Well, he _is_ on a new diet this week. Maybe he's getting hungry). 

He leaves the two of you, shutting the door so quietly it’s like he was never there at all.

You don't see him in the library again.

* * *

He meets you now. Is the first to greet you coming out of your room, already primped and perfect, the twenty-sixth step in his morning routine. Smiles, all perfect white teeth, energy and excitement before you’re even fully awake. It’s tactical; sound strategy. If you’re so determined to spread yourself around then at the very least he’s determined to have first choice of your evenings.

You yelp the first time, crashing into his chest as you come barreling through the door. He only catches you in a hug, lets himself stagger backwards in your reckless embrace. “Throwing yourself at me so early in the morning? How bold!” Laughs down at your scandalized expression, your tie askew, coat flapping open, unbuttoned. “I’m never one to turn down such a passionate invitation.”

You only narrow your eyes at him, mirth breaking easy through your stern facade. “I know you just did your hair. Don’t tempt me.”

“Darling, I’m a demon. Temptation is what I _do_.” 

You lean in, closer, edge your fingers just below his collar and he holds, watching. Waiting. Before you blow a messy raspberry against his cheek and free yourself in his alarm. “Oh that is _disgusting!_ ”

There are tears pricking in the corner of your eyes. You lean over, wipe at your face, shoulders shaking as he glowers with indignation. “Asmo, haha, I.” A struggling gasp of air as you finally catch the look on his face. “Ha, I’m sorry, don’t be mad.”

“I use three different moisturizers and human saliva isn’t one of them!” 

He flinches backwards as you approach, until you roll your eyes and dig a handkerchief out of your pockets. It looks . . . suitably soft. Clean, at least. Lets you draw it down, achingly gentle against the curve of his skin. “Interesting distinction. So you _do_ use other kinds of spit.”

He bristles at the word, but. “Ghost terror cats have an acid in their saliva that makes my skin _glow_.”

“Gross,” you say pleasantly. He frowns down at you. About to launch into a scathing condemnation of your complete and utter lack of knowledge of even the most basic of skincare necessities . . . “But it works. You look _amazing_.”

“Well.” Easily pacified. “Of course I do.” 

You’re back within his range, close enough for him to visit that same atrocity on _your_ face . . . He shifts towards you, latches fast at your hips and spins you into the wall. You gasp as your back connects. “Wait! Wait, wait, wait, what are you doing? We’re going to be late!”

“Why, I’m getting my revenge, darling.” He arches forwards, bends so that he hides you almost totally from view, your surroundings dimmed by the sublime beauty of his face. Twisted, slightly, with growing devilish intent. "Can I kiss you?"

You lick your lips, arrested under his focus. "What about breakfast?"

"Is that a 'no'?"

"Kiss me."

He crashes down, instant, mouth meeting yours. Devours every half-moaned breath as you wind your arms around his neck and laugh.  
  
You’re half an hour late to class. 

* * *

_Ugh_ , that alarm. Who changed his bubbling lava vent hot springs wind chimes? He flounders, reaches with aggravation for the offending party and squints up at the screen in his hand as he shuts it up. Flings it with extreme prejudice across the room, hears it land muffled against his lavender love seat.

Wait. That wasn’t his D.D.D.

He sits up in bed, confused. Or, tries to. There’s a warm body curled around him, legs tangled with his. He looks over, follows the elegant line of a bare arm, up towards a shoulder, a head pressed face-down in a pillow. _Oh._ You’re still here. A bleary blink — turning slightly so he can see the side table — confirms that it’s actually morning.

You’ve stayed the night. 

One of your arms is thrown over his hip, holding him close, and the pressure of that hand, too warm against the bone is making him feel . . . _something_. Satisfied? Smug? All his brothers and you’re in _his_ bed, tangible proof of his irresistible appeal. He’s on the verge of preening when you wiggle against him, dragging your bodies together, mouth barely parted. He stills, watching. Tracks the curve of your hip, your softly rising breath. Mmm. And don’t you just look _delicious_. 

From one dream to another. How _delightful_. 

He turns, allows himself to be drawn into you. Feels the soft skin of your back as he trails the ridges of your spine, heading towards the sweet flesh of your plump ass. Kneads, pressing you further into his spectacular morning wood. 

"Hmm?" Still sleepy, how _cute_. Although that's to be expected after such an intense night of exercise. You ruck your hips instinctively, and he looses a gasp. Oh, he wouldn't be opposed to waking up like this _every_ day.

"Good morning, darling." He smiles and you blink up at him, dream-addled and serene. It stills the motion you were making with your pelvis, which is unfortunate, but light breaks across your face like sunrise and suddenly that lack of friction seems unimportant. 

"Morning gorgeous," you mumble. You hook your leg over him, thrust lazily, his cock trapped between the heat of your bodies. He purrs, locks you closer, fingers flexing. Feels the cool press of your lips as you litter his face with kisses, unhurried. Snaps to the side, too quick, so he can catch your mouth with his own. 

You push him away, laughing, when he presses in with tongue; the barest flick against your teeth. "Asmo! Gross, I haven't brushed yet."

"You'll have to do it again anyway," he says significantly, grinding against you. His erection is conspicuous, pressing into your stomach. 

You raise a brow. "We have class today."

"So? We have class _every_ day." He moves closer, falls into that dip between shoulder and neck and _sucks_. It has you arching against him, immediate. "It's hardly an event."

"It would be if _you_ were going."

He pops off you loudly, narrowing his eyes. Oh, you're getting _good_ at this. An iron-clad argument if ever he's heard one. He sighs, dramatic, and drops backwards, bouncing you against his sinfully-soft mattress. His cock jumps, already leaking against the taut lines of his abdomen. "Fiiinnneeeeeee." Blows a lock of hair out of his eyes. "I guess it would be cruel of me to deprive them."

"Exactly," you say, smile mischievous. "So we'll have to be _quick_."

When he turns to look at you, you've already moved. Mouth hot and open and fastening over his head.

Oh _yes_. He'll never be able to wake up any other way.

The next time the two of you find yourselves in his bed, (less than sixteen hours later) the indent of your body is still pressed into his mattress. You sketch over it with the frantic movements of your intimacy, amazing stamina for a human who’d followed him to his peak no less than three times the night before. Thrusting, biting, _taking_ , a hunger that could almost match his own.

When he looks down at you: spent, exhausted, _glowing_. It feels like finding. The discovery of that perfect pair of earrings, a matched set he maybe wouldn’t have chosen on his own. The ultimate accessory, the ideal consort. He drops, descending, some unseen force of physics having him crashing gracefully on top of you, wrapping you up in his arms. 

He can guess at what he looks like (he's seen it before. More than once). Gorgeous, shining, flushed. Every fulfilled promise that he'd whispered to you as he'd enticed you into his embrace made real. But. You aren't responding correctly. There's nothing hungry in your gaze. Just a . . . _want_ that he doesn't understand how to decipher. 

Maybe it’s nothing. You’re a human, he’s a demon. There has to be _some_ incompatibility there, some miscommunication. It’s probably only this.

He rubs sweet, small circles at your crown and you burrow in, kick his silk blankets away, too hot but still trying to marry skin to skin. Lift your hand just enough so you can run your fingers through his sweaty hair, brush the strands gently off his forehead, your eyes trained unwavering on his face.

Warmth flares somewhere above the line of his pelvis, uncomfortable new sensation. That’s interesting. Maybe there _are_ some things left for you to teach him.

He catches you, threads his fingers through yours. Rolls feline to sitting and tries to tug you with him. "Come on, honey, time to get cleaned up." 

You groan but follow, slump dejected against him, adorably reluctant. Press kisses to his temple, to the slick skin of his cheek, his shoulder. Folding over him, boneless. _Too bad._ It doesn't matter how precious you are, he isn't going to sleep sweaty and disgusting and covered in fluids. 

You complain the entire trek to his washroom, but you groan with relief when you first slip into that warm water, muscles uncoiling. He settles you in between his legs, lathers shampoo into your hair and feels some strange, primal contentment to know that tomorrow every centimetre of you is going to smell like _him_. And _oh_. He can't _wait_ to see the looks on his brother's faces.

* * *

Your toothbrush is in his bathroom. Just sitting in the holder on his wall, snug beside his own. Normally that space remains empty (he has a box of disposables for his overnight guests) but. You refuse to use them, say it’s wasteful. Duck out of his room at night to pop into your bathroom, back and forth down the hallway before you return for cuddles (and maybe another round).

All that wasted time. 

So he follows you, once. Holds you close, tethered with an arm around your waist, a disruption that unbalances your steps. You’re amused but bewildered, make a motion to shove him off that you don’t follow through on. 

“Are you going to follow me into the bathroom?”

“Can’t I? I let you into mine.” 

“Asmo.” You actually _do_ pry him off then, follow the nonexistent sting with a kiss to his cheek. “I’m just going to brush my teeth. I promise, it’s not anything exciting.”

He only smiles at you. “You’re not going to brush your teeth.” 

“Oh? I’m not lying to you.” 

“Well you’re not going to do it here.” 

“What?”

He dances around you, somehow maneuvers into your washroom while you’re still blocking the door. Takes your toothbrush direct from the cup on your sink, picks up your cleanser (and immediately puts it down. You put that on your _face?_ With _those_ astringent ingredients?), your wipes, your toothpaste. Then flounces right back out, grabbing your arm on his way.

“What are you doing?” you ask, making a grab for your things.

He holds everything teasingly just out of reach. “I’m a full-service lover. I can’t have you trekking through the hallways post-orgasm when it would be so much easier for you to stay in mine."

"I don't stay in your room _every_ night, you know."

"Well you can always keep a spare in _your_ bedroom." 

It's a short walk. He shepherds you easily, tugs you direct to his sink so you can see where everything is going. Mostly just unobtrusive on the counter, a tiny corner of space that he feels he can designate for your use where he won't be too inconvenienced. (Next to _his_ superior cleanser, which he is going to have to let you use for a day or so until the two of you can go shopping for your own). 

And your toothbrush, right by his.

When he turns back around you're just standing there. Watching him. Not that he can fault the impulse, of course, _every_ angle is his best. But. "What?"

Your eyes flick, once. Him, your toothbrushes. Purse your lips as you chew on the words locked tight behind them. "Nothing."

"Are you sure?" He frowns. "Are you mad I left your cleanser behind? Because honey, you need to throw it away. It's absolute garbage."

"What?" Your face is the picture of indignation. "What's wrong with it? I got it on sale downtown!"

"You bought skincare products on _sale?_ " He's utterly appalled. It's a good thing he went to your washroom, or you might have gone the full year believing what you were doing was in any way acceptable. Ugh. He was _going_ to try something new today, since you said you were interested in that _exquisite_ device that you found in one of his drawers but.

He _really_ can't let this stand. 

"Oh no, no, no. Darling." He dives for your hands, clasps them tight in his own, eyes shining. "You're breaking my heart." 

" _Asmo_ —"

"We're going out. Grab a jacket, it's chilly. And _not_ the green one, it doesn't match what you're wearing I don't care _how_ much you like the pockets." 

"Wait, but I thought we were—"

"If you don't hurry up the stores are going to be closed! And then you'll have to buy me a bufo milk tea with extra rose petals to make it up to me." He's calling over his shoulder, already rummaging through his closet. Hmm, maybe the lavender coat today? Ooh, and he has that new fairy leather white purse that he trampled the succubus for . . . 

"What? They put so many in there it's more petals than tea! You can't actually _enjoy_ it."

"What does that have to do with anything? It makes for a _gorgeous_ picture." He tosses something at you, large and pale yellow with a decadent drape. "Put that on, I'm not waiting for you to go back to your room. Now that I'm thinking of it, there's _so_ much I need to buy." 

" . . . I'm calling the cab," you mutter, not bothering to disguise the disappointment in your voice.

He almost wants to laugh. Isn't _somebody_ impatient. Hasn't anyone ever told you that good things come to those who wait?

Maybe he'll tease you twice as much while you're out, just to enjoy the way it makes you squirm.

* * *

"It's my turn now, isn't it? And I know just who I want to ask . . ."

He turns to you, already glowing with expectation. You arch your eyebrow at him, not waiting for the question. "Truth." Follow it with a long sip of your drink.

He can almost _feel_ everyone's ears pricking to attentiveness.

It's the first time everyone's come together to hang out like this in . . . a while. (Barring movie nights, where it is, in fact, considered _rude_ to actively hold a conversation). He'd gathered his brothers here for a fun game, a ritual that he'd insisted was an important part of the bonding process. Drunk truth-or-dare. And lovesick as they were as soon as they heard of your eager participation his brothers had fallen all over themselves to attend, hopeful for any chance to learn your secrets, your honest feelings. 

(Except, of course, for Lucifer, who had frowned and holed up in his study with stacks of uncompleted paperwork. Poor thing. Asmodeus saw you watching as he closed the door, knows you're probably going to visit him after this with a glass of Demonus and a gentle smile).

(Well. Even _Diavolo_ finds him impossible to resist).

He swirls the plastic cup in his hand, pretending to ruminate. As though he doesn't already have a laundry list of questions waiting, carefully thought-out and streamlined. He starts with the obvious: something shiny-sweet and so distracting he dives after it, instinct. "Tell me what you like the best about me."

"Oh, _Asmo_. If that's what you wanted to know, you didn't have to drag me into a game to find out," you laugh. A drop of drink spills onto your jeans, distracting patterns on the enticing meat of your thigh. He considers leaving it, but. He _is_ a demon after all. Why pretend to resist temptation? 

He drags his finger along the bead, then lifts it to his lips. It's a calculated movement and you don't disappoint. Mouth parting just slightly around your cup, lowered too much for you to actually be drinking.

"Is it such a difficult question? Come on, my hair? My face? That _thing_ that I did with my tongue the other day . . ." Levi is making some sputtering, choking sounds behind him while Mammon kicks up an indignant fuss, but Asmo won't be distracted. (Your dalliance is hardly a _secret_ , after all).

There's a flush building on your face that has nothing to do with the alcohol, but your expression remains casually amused. Only given away by the rounding of your pupils.

"It's against the spirit of the game to make me guess, you know."

That breaks the spell. You may not be susceptible to his charm magic, but he still has an _ample_ reserve of natural talent that he's fine-tuned to produce the most engaging effect. You haven't been able to resist. You're only human, after all. 

You blink once, take a reflexive sip. He can almost _hear_ the careful turning of thoughts in your mind, the way you're weighing all your words. Shifts his hips, waiting. He didn't think it would take you this long —

"Your personality."

"My . . . Oh." That's. Different. He can't . . . when was the last time someone gave him an answer like _that?_

"You light up every room you walk into. Just seeing your face makes me smile."

"Oh _, darling!"_ How exciting. He means to preen, but instead his words come out a little bit breathy, just shy of a whisper. "Really?" 

Something about the cadence of that word feels uncomfortably sincere, so he reaches over, twirls a lock of your hair between his fingers and levels you with his most seductive grin. Your mouth parts, barely a gasp. But before he can lean in and proposition you _properly_ —

"It's gross." Ah, Levi. Hells, his brothers really love _nothing_ more than ruining the mood for him. "They gets this goofy look on their face anytime they even hear your _name_."

Well isn't that _interesting_. Something flushes in his chest, but he can't quite put a name to it. It's familiar, in a strange, habitual way. Like not quite recognizing the hummed refrain of a song he heard centuries ago, back when the world was newer. He turns to you, ready to tease, but. You're chugging your drink, the smooth line of your neck brushed red. 

"Careful," Satan says. His book has finally been abandoned somewhere off to the side, not even a ( _gasp_ ) bookmark to keep his place. And it only took . . . what? Four? Six? Drinks? "It sounds like you're in love with him."

Asmodeus expects an immediate response. Maybe laughter, a casual 'yes'. Instead you lower your cup, slow, staring down into the sticky plastic bottom. Caught off guard. You take a moment, like you're really thinking about it, and he leans even further into your space, trying to find your eyes. For some reason his breath feels like an animal, caught in his lungs and beating rapidly, no hope of escape. 

Finally, a soft chuckle, a shake of your head. "Don't worry, he _very_ kindly warned me off the idea at his earliest convenience." 

Oh. Yes, that's right. He did, of _course_ he did, he _always_ does. Nothing new. He settles back on his legs. Takes a sip of his drink, his eyes trained on you over the rim.

"So. Satan: truth or dare."

* * *

  
"No!" He grimaces at the item in your hands, all tassels and tinsel and one strangely placed, oversize zipper. Honestly, what is this even supposed to _be?_ "Love, you're being cruel."

"Oh? I thought the most stylish demon in the Devildom could do with a _challenge_." 

"Darling, I am going to _destroy_ you." He presses the shirt he's picked for you into your hands. Or maybe it's a dress? It's impossible to say. Straps flop every which way, one particularly long one dropping to the floor, the buckle knocking hard against your shin. You wince. "Oh, sorry sweetheart." Grins at you, sharp, one fang poking at his full bottom lip. "Want me to kiss it better?"

You're considering, he can see it. Weighing the pleasure against the inevitable conclusion: losing track of time in one of the shop's dressing rooms. A perfectly excellent way to spend an afternoon, as far as he's concerned, but your competitive streak is aching to be fed. You haven't won one of these ugly outfit challenges in _weeks_. (Although you should be proud you've won _at all_. You're impressively inventive; an advantage of having no fear and no discernible taste).

No wonder the piece you've chosen for him is so spectacularly hideous. You need the handicap.

"I do." 

He's distracted from his thoughts by your sudden agreement. Are you a mind-reader, now? You _have_ gotten almost supernaturally better at anticipating his desires when the two of you are . . . "What?" 

"I would _love_ for you to kiss it better." He nearly drops to his knees right there beside a selection of feathered boas, but you stop him with a sharp tug on his descending collar, almost hard enough to choke. Hold him there, staring, while he flushes at the sudden display of force. 

The temptation is _strong_. He's being buffeted by the waves rolling off of you, desire so physical he's shocked you aren't staggering under the force of it. Can almost _see_ the shade of your next action, collapsing into him, kissing fervently. And there's a clear path behind you, he could back you all the way up to that wall, right next to that display of sunglasses. Get his hands underneath you, lift you, cage you in. Indulge absolutely every whim until you're panting, falling apart at his touch right in the middle of the store-

"Don't." You swallow. "Don't start. I am going to _win_ today, no matter how damned distracting you're determined to be!" 

"I'm not _trying_ to do anything, love. I can't help it if I'm literally sin incarnate."

"Well then maybe you _should_ be trying." You hold up a hand when his expression goes dark and enticed. "To _tone it down_. Honestly, you already have all this unfair advantage. How is anyone supposed to concentrate on anything else when you're around?"

He pouts at you. "Boo. Fine. I will make an _attempt_ to be slightly less than my usual dazzling, seductive self." Sniffs. "I hope you appreciate it, it's going to be near impossible."

"Of course I do, sunshine." You dart in, quick, the briefest touch against his cheek. "So I promise I'll make it up to you when I win."

"Are you _done_ yet?" he asks, for probably the fifth time in as many minutes. He's been sitting in the waiting area _forever_ , and the tinsel is starting to itch. 

A groan floats out from behind the stall door, all frustration. "No! This stupid thing is impossible to put on! I can't even figure out where all these straps go, and I don't have a tail or demon flexibility or _magic_ to help me fasten some of them."

"Are you asking for help?" He perks up. Snuggling up inside that tight little dressing room . . . He can think of at least seven extra uses for those straps just off the top of his head.

"I. Yes." He pops to his feet, and you slam the door open, leveling him with a glare. "But **only** to get me into this thing. Nothing else."

"Of course," he concedes easily. "I won't do anything you don't want."

You narrow your eyes at him. You know a loophole when you hear one, but you're too lost to refuse him. He can see at least three straps looped around your neck, on the verge of strangling you.

 _Much_ less comfortable than you usually like.

He follows you in, sliding himself behind you in the tight space. You’re turned towards the mirror, slightly too near the surface, your breath fogging the glass. _Oh_ , and how you’d look pressed right up against it, cool against your cheek, your panting breaths evidenced by spreading condensation . . .

His fingers make quick work of the fastenings at your back. From here, tilting up below his bangs, he can see your face. Flushed, steadfastly avoiding his gaze. So you don’t notice at first when his hands start to wander, heated lines drawn over your arms, below the short hem of your shirt. He chuckles as you start to squirm, words warm on the shell of your ear. “You know, you look _almost_ as good as I do.” 

A jolt. He's skating over the delineation of your ribs, drawn towards the smooth silk of your skin, not lifting until he reaches the end of another strap. The barest interruption in his engrossing travels. You accidentally meet his stare, words just beginning to form but. The second your eyes find his all the air leaves you in a whoosh and you turn away.

 _Interesting_. You aren’t usually so shy.

It’s so endearing he doesn’t realize what he’s doing until it’s already done. A temptation so strong it almost doesn’t register. He pulls away, dumbstruck, his lips still close enough to brush against your cheek.

He kissed you. He _kissed_ you, chaste and sweet and . . . Nothing else. No underlying expectation, no attempted seduction. 

You’re frozen underneath him. Big eyes darting between his reflection and that exquisite reality, an innocent despite all your shared corruption. Closer than you usually are, he can see so much more: your sclera, the spread of your lashes, the careful comb of your eyebrows. The way your flush spreads across your face, edging out, just as deep at your ears. It’s . . . Different.

You reach up, so tender it’s almost a caress and he purrs, leans into your touch. And then. 

You kiss him. 

Something is wrong. So very, _very_ wrong — he can feel it in the way his pulse jumps in his veins, his heartbeat stutters, soft and alien in his chest. The world shifts off its axis, just slightly off-centre, and he can’t find his balance. Everything is too gentle, too _sweet_. Unhurried and reverent; pressing desire undefined by lust against his lips.

When you finally break away the look on your face makes him feel like he’s going to cry.

“Awfully quiet today, aren’t you L-darling?” He wiggles his eyebrows at you, creates space so he can break this strange spell. An illusion, some imperfect hypnotism, a magic that he hasn’t yet experienced. It’s fine, everything’s fine. He just needs to catch his breath. “You know your kisses taste so much sweeter when my name is on your lips.”

Your face goes still before it clears, the briefest shadow of something shuttering. But then you laugh, and if it’s cut off, subdued, that’s alright. It’s been a weird sort of day.

He makes to leave, already tapping lightly backwards, but—

"Asmo?" Too loud, even at a whisper. He stills, caught, suddenly uncomfortable in the web of your voice. You clear your throat, smile, try again at a more regular register. "Are you going to take the picture?"

"Hmm? Oh. Right." He lifts his D.D.D., snaps a picture of your outfit. Passes it through three filters (his tried and true) before uploading it instant to Devilgram. Usually the winner will be decided by public poll, final tally by, say, the time you finish dinner. Maybe later, if the two of you end up staying out. 

You sigh. "Well. Out of our hands now."

"It's a foregone conclusion, darling," he says, waving his hand dismissively. The arrogance of his statement undercut by the mirth in his eyes.

"So confident." You snort. It's not a particularly _nice_ sound, but. For some reason he doesn't think he minds when it comes from you. 

“Ready to head back?”

Surprise flashes across your face — it’s the first time you aren’t going out for boba afterwards, basking in the creative glow together and smugly enjoying the picture you two make. But your expression settles, all casual cheer. “Yeah. I think I’m good to go.”

And he offers, of course. (There really isn’t any reason _not_ to). But you demur, shut him out and struggle out of your outfit on your own. He sits outside the door, changed in less than a minute, waiting patiently. No complaints. 

You don't sleep in his room that night. He doesn't offer. 

You never ask.

He finally remembers, later, showered and changed and waiting for sleep in a bed that's big and open and cold. Checks his Devilgram so he can see the numbers. He's instantly distracted by the photo. Your face stares out at him: gaze direct. Piercing and warm. Something swelling inside him, a balloon gaining air, filling a space he didn’t realize was empty.

How strange. He doesn't even remember what he ended up wearing, today.

The polls light up, one bar almost insultingly more full than the other. 

You've defeated him thoroughly.

* * *

It’s been two weeks since your last outing to Majolish. And he had taken a day (or two, or three, really who’s counting — the crushing defeat of your latest style showdown rendering him too petulant for an appropriate showing), before he had bounced back full force, returned to that easy seduction that you had fallen into so readily, buoyed by the testament of previous encounter. 

You turn him down.

Sure, he can understand. Frankly, you’ve been doing a remarkable job of handling him so often, in such concentrated doses. You need a break. Satisfying the avatar of lust must be a draining task, after all. And you still _flirt_. Still bat your lashes and laugh and giggle and find excuses to cup warmth against him, palm to skin. Your hands lingering, soft and comforting. Touch just slightly changed. 

But it’s fine. He isn’t worried. You’re there, with him. Worm your way into his space, continue with your Monday night spa days, your smoothie-fueled gossip sessions. Introduce him to your favourite outfits on Devilgram, wildly misguided styles that make your eyes crinkle at the corners, genuine delight. So there’s no need to be concerned. 

You’ll come back to his embrace when you’re ready. 

Except. A handful of rejections turns to a dozen, two dozen, a full fortnight. In his bedroom but never back in his bed. A damning thing, to turn away his temptation so easily.

You’re with him now, gesturing wildly with one hand while your other holds a devil twist cocktail. Regaling him with some tale about Beel, confessed to by six succubi at once (not an insane number, Asmo himself is constantly being approached by his own bevy of admirers). To hear you tell it, the poor boy was very neatly trapped outside the arena, at a loss, Solomon watching from the benches with unrestrained amusement. 

He posts his chin on one hand, laying on his stomach, sheets flush against the skin exposed by his riding hem. Legs kicked up behind him as he regards you with probing concentration. You’re an equation with an answer he can’t parse, the nuance of desire not translating legibly enough to read.

He can still sense the lust emanating from you but the harsh urgency is gone. It's . . . Quieter. Deeper.

Something that he can't quite remember.

When you pause for breath he reaches out, entwines his fingers with your own, tugs you closer. You go, unsteady, laughing, the drink in your hand mostly dry. “What?”

“You've got a little something on your face."

"Oh." It's a strange statement, flat. You reach up, swiping roughly at your cheeks with one thumb. "Did I get it?"

"Almost. Here, let me." Fingers extended, moving to the gentle line of your jaw. Rubbing careful at the skin until it's clear . . . 

Heat flares, sudden as combustion; a wash of lust so strong he's almost drunk with it. Every fibre of your being is _calling_ to him, desperate, _greedy_ , his surroundings turning gray. Your body is a neon beacon and he's a moth, flying helpless into that mesmerizing light. Leaning in, close, close _closer_ , towards the stinging burn of that inevitable kiss—

You flinch away. Your desire shuts off like a tap, complete, and he's left reeling from the abrupt deprivation. Blinks, slowly, as the world comes back into dim focus. 

"Sorry Asmo, not tonight. I'm just not feeling up to it." You laugh, a little too breezy, as you decline. Don't once meet his gaze. 

The lie is a stiletto, a slide between his ribs so smooth he almost doesn't feel the pain. "Well, my invitation is always open, darling." 

* * *

  
You turn him down for a full month.

  
After that, he stops trying.

* * *

Oh his _head_. He should have gone straight home, instead of returning to the bar to mope. Five full bottles of Demonus later and he's staggering in the street, wings flapping lazily, holding him just airborne enough to keep from stumbling over his steps. 

Tonight was a _disaster_. 

No less than two ( _2_ ) willing participants, eager to partake in his pleasure. He'd found them at a club, dancing, sinuous. _Stunning_. Exactly what he'd needed, (especially since Solomon had said in no uncertain terms that he was _busy_ tonight, can't you just go out or something Asmo, demons must be falling all over themselves to share your bed).

They'd taken him to a hotel room, popped the bottles of champagne and sprayed themselves and each other in a shower of seductive bubbles that made their skin taste _so_ sweet. And then clothes were everywhere, and he'd been on top of one of them, bouncing, moving his hips with wild abandon. All of them _swimming_ in lust, gorgeous, mewling, played like an instrument under his skillful fingers. He should have been at his _peak_. 

But he just couldn't crest that rise.

Oh, his hook-ups will have nothing to complain about, he made _sure_ of it. They both came at least twice, he counted. Washed it off his thighs, his stomach before slipping back into his clothes and then downstairs to the lounge. If nothing else his insatiable reputation should be firmly reinforced. They were satisfied but he wasn't; back on the prowl, so to speak.

Except all he'd done was sit at the counter and have the ( _very beautiful)_ incubus bartender pour him so many glasses of alcohol he'd eventually left him his own bottle(s). And Asmodeus hadn't even tried to pick him up! What was _wrong_ with him?

It's been an off night. An off _week_.

Fuck.

He can't be _that_ out of practice, surely? Spoiled by having a willing partner in his home, barely a moment away . . . Well. At least until two months ago. Your face swims murky in his mind and he grimaces. Even now he still can't understand what's changed, why your attitude has suddenly shifted. You still _talk_ to him, but after that last rejection you hang out less often, no longer furnish him with your full and undivided attention. He didn't think he was so needy, but it feels like he's just another one of his brothers now. The most basic kind of friend.

He unlatches the door with clumsy fingers. The tile of the front hall is shuddering, tilting, doesn't have the basic decency to Stay. Still. Ugh. He needs to lie down.

He drags himself up the steps, the inconsistent rhythm of his wings bouncing him unevenly. Just down this hallway . . . Right? Left? His room is on this side, isn't it?

He collides with something warm, smells the vague comfort of jasmine and sandalwood. Oh. 

It's you. 

He can feel his face relaxing, going soft, before he remembers that he isn't totally happy to see you. 

. . . Why is that again?

You're surprised. "Asmo? What are you doing here? I thought you were . . . out."

"Well I'm backkk!" Gross, his words are slurring. He pauses, tries to get his faculties in order. "Aren't you lucky?"

"So lucky," you say, looking bemused. Concerned? He can't quite figure out what's going on with your face, right now.

"What are youuuu doing here? So late at night?" 

You freeze. Huh. Actually, where is this? Your hands are at your sides but you clearly just came from the door behind you. Is that . . .

Even as drunk as he is, his mind is still sharp enough to make _that_ connection. 

"So. _Mammon_ , huh?" How strange, his voice is kind of flat. Bubbles drowned under the haze of inebriation. He _really_ overdid it tonight. "Congratulations. You're expanding your horizons."

"Asmo . . ."

"I'm happy for you," he says, except. He doesn't _sound_ happy. Not at all. "I was worried that you were tired of demons, you know?"

A crack. His composure is going, oh _Diavolo. Shit._ He can be such a weepy drunk and he really, _really_ doesn't want to cry in front of you. "So I guess you're just tired of me?"

Ha, you look alarmed. That would be kind of funny, if your face wasn't swirling, going blurry and abstract. Disgraceful, he couldn't keep the tears in for just a few. More. _Minutes?_

" _Asmo—_ "

"What did I _do?_ " A hiccup, oh _damn it **all**_ he's sobbing. Lifts his hands to his face so he can hide this sudden shame. The words won't stop, too much truth that he didn't recognize until they're pouring from his lips, unhindered. Everything emptying out of him at once. "Why don't you _want_ me anymore?"

He is negative space; absence, a vacuum. So vast it’s impossible to be filled. 

He's shocked by warmth, a soothing touch. One of your hands is on his head, stroking. Gentle. You've folded around him, maneuvered your arm below his fluttering wings with impressive dexterity, hold him close against you. Your breath is too close, a tickle against his ear. 

"Mammon and I weren't doing what you think. And _you_ didn't do anything." Every sentence is punctuated with another, lingering pat, rubbing at the small of his back. "I _do_ want you."

"Do you?" Sniffling. Disgusting. Why can't he _control_ himself?

"I do. I really, _really_ do." You turn your head, kiss the stream of tears off the curve of his cheek. "I've just been sick, for a little while. That's all it is."

"Oh." He burrows against your shoulder, feels the way he's dampening the fabric and can't bring himself to care. "But if it was something else, if I upset you you would tell me, right?"

"I promise." You nod, he can feel it against his crown. "It isn't your fault at all."

He throws his arms around you, latches tight. Takes a deep, shuddering breath and smells the perfume of your skin, your shampoo, the House detergent. Feels relief surge through him, so powerful he nearly flops against you, boneless. "Well. Good."

"Do you feel better?"

He mumbles against your shirt. It's supposed to be a 'Yes' but even he can't quite decide if it was understandable.

"What was that? You'll have to lift your head, sunshine, I can't hear you."

You haven't called him that in _so long_. "Much better. Thanks."

"Good. Now let's get you to bed, you look like you're dead on your feet." 

He flinches at the reminder. He must be a _mess_ he can't believe . . . And in front of you! If you were too sick to sleep with him this can't be doing him any favours. 

He turns his head, staring blearily at the far wall. "I can make it on my own, but thank you."

"Asmo, you're barely upright. I'm not going to leave you like this."

"No, I'm a mess." He winces, extracts himself from your embrace. "And you've already seen me like this, but the shorter the memory the better! I can't let you—" 

You swallow the rest of his words. Take him, pressing forwards, unbothered by the slick tears on his face, the puffy redness of his eyes. Just kiss and kiss and kiss him, until he can't remember what he was saying. 

It feels familiar. Soft and wanting in a way that he's not used to, a repeat of that one distant kiss in a changing room a lifetime ago. When you finally pull away you're staring right at the devastation of his face; uneven complexion, ruined mascara. But for some reason he doesn't feel that instinctive urge to hide. 

He lets you take him gently by the hands, tug him back into his room. Help him out of his clothes, his shoes. Wash his face with rosewater, clean up the dregs of his makeup. Lets you prop him up against you, take his brush and run it soothingly against his scalp. Careful, even motions, so calm he could fall asleep.

It's a terrifying seduction of a different sort. Alien and kind and heartbreaking.

When you've finished, brushed his hair off his face, tucked him into his bed with a kiss at his temple he stops you. A gentle circle around your wrist, keeping you from leaving. 

"Asmo, what—"

"Stay with me. Please." He's never outright asked before, but alcohol is a reckless mistress. "We don't have to do anything."

You're silent for a beat too long. Searching. And he slackens his grip, afraid that he's pushed too hard, that you're going to leave him, _again_ , and this time not come back. But . . .

"Okay."

You twist in his hand so that you can take it, pull it lightly to your face and kiss the back of his knuckles. Then you let him go so you can strip down, slide below the covers with him. Hold him close against your chest so your heartbeat reverberates against his ear. Sturdy and real and _perfect_. And it _feels_ . . . he doesn't have the words for it. Not anymore. 

He's lost in you. Everything is sensation and skin and—

The soft chimes of his alarm rouse him from his hazy dreams. He shudders upright, rolls out his shoulders, stretches his spine. Honestly not too bad, considering what kind of a state he must have been in last night. There's a little stiffness in his wings, but that's what he gets for sleeping in them, so. 

He pulls the covers off, lets the cold air of the room slap his skin awake. Does a few easy yoga poses just to loosen up his joints. 

Goes to check the time, and oh, excellent, there's water on his bedside table. He grabs for it, chugs it indelicately. _Ew_ his mouth tastes _disgusting_ , did he not brush his teeth last night? Frankly he's amazed he made it to his room at all, let alone remembered to undress. 

He yawns, fingers carding through his hair as he meanders to his bathroom. Well, no tangles. That's something, at least. Reaches blindly for his toothbrush when his fingers bump against something. 

Oh. 

_Your_ toothbrush is still sitting in the holder on the wall. 

He doesn't know why it's still here. You haven't used it in so long, its only purpose is collecting dust. Although. For some reason it looks oddly clean.

He watches it, oddly wary, out of the corner of his eye while he brushes his teeth. Goes through his immaculate morning routine (with those ten extra steps to compensate for a night of drinking). Combs his hair, sprays perfume, throws on his favourite silk robe.

He doesn't throw it out.

* * *

"Satan, I've been cursed."

The blonde _finally_ looks up from the book in his hands, eyebrow quirking. "Have you now."

"Yes!" He warms under the attention like a cat in a sunspot, his general complaints growing more specific. Affects an appropriately tormented pose now he has an audience. "Listen, I haven't been able to get off _properly_ in _agessss_." Satan frowns, immediately goes right back to reading. Not that this dissuades the avatar of lust, unwilling to concede the recognition after it's been dangled so tantalizing in front of him. "I thought maybe I just wasn't being picky enough with my partners, but even when I went back to people who I _knew_ could do it, nothing happened!" 

His brother puts his book down, scrutinizing. Sighs, long and put-upon. "Please note that I'm only indulging you because there actually _is_ a chance that one of your slighted lovers put some sort of sex curse on you."

"Right? They must have been jealous! Oh, not that I could blame them, of course. I mean, look at me."

Satan makes a _face_ like he's already regretting the recent decisions that have brought him to this point. Not that there was anything he could have done, really. Sequestering himself in here, clearly hoping to be alone thank you very much. Too bad the house was otherwise entirely empty and Asmo desperately needed someone to complain to. The fifth brother had dragged himself from room to room, moping and whining to the empty walls, before he'd even _thought_ to look in the library. 

(And if he's been sulking for a few days, so what? It's not like his brothers have all simultaneously decided to vacate the premises because they're so tired of it.)

( Anyway, no one's outright _told_ him he's being annoying, so he can continue this atrocious behaviour for a while yet).

He drapes himself artfully over a stuffed armchair. Languishes, with one arm thrown dramatically over his face, pouting and despairing until he realizes that Satan has actually asked him a question. Ha. Nothing like a potential curse to trap him in a conversation.

"So," Satan tries again. Asmo shifts (not quite straightening but lying . . . slightly less horizontal), giving him his undivided attention. "Have there been any other symptoms?"

"Of a curse? Not that I can think of."

Satan frowns, looking pensive. "No problems using your charm? Or seducing partners into your bed?"

Asmodeus narrows his eyes. " _No_." 

Excepting _you_ , of course, but you're some kind of anomaly. And anyway, didn't he hear somewhere that you're sick? You'll be falling all over him again in no time, he's sure of it.

"Has your performance changed at all?"

"If you're asking whether I am meeting my usual impeccable standard in the bedroom, I can assure you that I **am**. Although if you were fishing for a demonstration . . ." 

"Shut up." Satan slaps him about the head and Asmo sputters, the offense more about the damage to his hair than any actual discomfort. Terribly unfair. Wasn't _he_ the one that had just asked a question so insulting Asmodeus _almost_ considered starting a fight? (Although not a _physical_ one. Obviously).

"Does anything _feel_ any different? At any point?"

"It does!" He jerks upright, casting about for some way to vocalize the issue. "The physical sensation is all there but for some reason, it's not enough. Like, there should be a pressure building, and then . . . nothing." He pouts, flopping down, head hanging over the back. "No matter how often or how long or how rough or how soft I do it! Nothing's working!"

Satan nods. "When was the last time you . . ." Pauses, like he's trying to find the words. "Completed?"

He mumbles his response into the leather of the chair. 

"What was that?"

"More than a month ago." 

"And you didn't decide to bring it up until recently?" Satan asks, incredulous. 

"Well I haven't been going out until recently!" 

He's not looking, still upside-down and staring despondently at the colourful spines on the shelves. So he misses the way Satan's smile goes intrigued, knowing and too suggestive. "Oh? And why is that?"

"I don't know! I didn't." Rolls to his stomach and blows that long forelock out of his face. "I was busy."

Satan mutters something that sounds like 'Is that what you're calling it,' before he gathers his book and stands abruptly. Asmo watches, puzzled, as the avatar of wrath stops just at his head and stares down at him. Passes his palm over his face, down towards his chest. There's the trickle of magic; the crackling tingle of ozone passing over his skin. 

"What are you doing?"

"You're not cursed." The look Satan levels him with is _withering_. He withdraws his hands, huffs sharply through his nose. Once, so not quite in dangerous territory yet. (Although to be fair, Satan would _never_ lose control in a library). 

He walks towards the hallway without another word as Asmo stares after him. "Wait! Satan where are you going? What's _wrong_ with me?"

His brother pauses just at the door. Glances over his shoulder to the sorry picture he makes and says, "You're in love, idiot." Takes a step out into the hall and adds, almost like an afterthought, "And you're being unbearable. Stop."

Asmo blinks, barely registering his quickly receding steps. Snaps out of it long enough to say, “Hey! Don’t lump me in with Mammon!”

Well. Shit. 

He’s wrong, of course. Asmodeus isn’t _in love_. The idea is ludicrous. Hilarious. So laughable in fact, that he actually does laugh, once or twice. Out loud. 

He isn’t in love. In love with _who?_

  
. . . Maybe Levi is in his room. He's not a great listener, but he won't kick him out for _hours_.

* * *

There’s nothing to _do_.

He’s the only one at home today. All his brothers are out, _again_ , without him thank you very much. (And so what if he’s the one who cancelled his own plans? How could they honestly decide not to include him in their diversions? He is very _excellent_ company). 

He’s already gone to the spa, visited the new boutiques downtown. Passed by the clubs in all their dismal, mid-day anonymity and tried not to feel that strange gnaw of disappointment knowing he won’t be gracing the strobing dance floors with his glowing presence. Even with the new outfits nestled in his arms he just . . . 

Anyway. Everything is settled in his closet, his skin-clear smoothie is sitting half-finished on his vanity, his newest favourite band is playing on his speakers. His nail polish is spread out before him, an array of colours brighter than a Mirage Flower. 

He could change his regular manicure, maybe. Considers, placing one finger lightly on the top of a deep emerald, shot through with streaks of gold glitter. Stares at it, not really looking. 

Rocks the bottle back and forth, back and forth. 

It would look _really_ good on _you._

Sadly, you’ve abandoned the house for a few days. Gone for a sleepover at Purgatory Hall. He’d complained, of course, ‘You’re going to sleep with Solomon and Simeon? _Without me?’_ but. All in good fun. Who is he, after all, to demand your time? You don't owe each other anything.

He made sure of it.

There's a bright knock on his door, startling him enough that he knocks the bottle out of his hands. It goes rolling across the surface of his table, toppling to the floor. He huffs, shifting to bend down, arms stretching as he picks it up. “Come in!” He doesn't turn, just waits for whoever it is to tell him what they want and then, hopefully, leave. 

"Asmo!" 

"Oh, you're back!" He stands. Yours isn't the voice that he expected. He thought . . . weren’t you going to be away until Monday? He feels a reflexive urge to go over, throw his arms around you and pull you in. But he doesn't. Just waits, staring, one hand still on his vanity desk. "What are you doing here?"

"I missed you!" You take the initiative yourself, almost skipping into his room. Spread your arms wide, inviting. "Can I have a hug?"

"Of _course_ darling!" He steps into you, drawn like a magnet. He's still just slightly reserved (all those spurious rejections, the constancy chipping away at his nearly limitless enthusiasm) and you huff an almost laugh, take him by the back of his head, press him into the crook of your neck. You’re . . . different. Looser. More free.

He nestles down, nosing along your jaw. Huh. You smell like smoke and eucalyptus and that strange, ionic sting of sky. "Did you have fun at your sleepover?"

You giggle. He can feel it, the shaking obvious against his chest. "I did! Were you lonely without me?"

"Well maybe I wouldn't have been if you'd invited me to go with you," he sighs, drawn-out and melodramatic. "You have to tell me _everything_. It’s only fair." It's meant to be teasing, but there's something hollow echoing beneath his words that he brushes away before he can examine it too closely. 

"Ha, I'm sorry. I’m afraid I’m not one to kiss and tell." You turn into him, smile obvious against his hair. "Besides, why should I spend my time with you talking about other men? Maybe I want your attention on _me_. Just for now." 

Kindling, sparking to a fire in his chest. "Hmm, I guess I can't fault you for wanting to monopolize my beauty when you get the chance." He pulls back, _boops_ your nose with one long finger. "Did you have anything in mind?"

"Well . . ." You glance over to his speakers, still playing that Fiendamon album. Turn back to him with your eyes glittering. "We could have a dance party?"

"I _am_ an impeccable dancer." He slides along your arms, captures your hands and pulls you, spinning, to the open space in the centre of his room. Twirls you, once, twice, your hair swirling against your face as you rotate out, your expression the brightness of a clear summer's day. A _human_ realm day, cloudless and blue, with all the lingering sharpness of a breeze. 

He releases you to twist in place, arms high, shimmying. He knows his body; every curve, every angle. Shows it off to best effect: all those graceful lines. Is rewarded with the apple of your smile, your gaze keen and intent.

"For someone who suggested it, you aren't moving very much."

You hum, tilt your head at him. "Maybe I wanted to try a different kind of dance."

His eyes flash. That trembling start of hopeful expectation. " . . . And what kind of dance were _you_ thinking of?"

"This one." You duck into his space, sweep your arms against the curve of his waist, settle low on his back. Press yourself to him, flush and warm and _wanting_ . Oh. He can feel it again, bright and tantalizing. That sweet coil of your lust as it brushes up against him. And everything is so _present_. So intense, sound dulled to the frantic beating of your heart, the flush climbing on your cheeks. "Is this okay?"

He wants to make some easy remark, to fold back into the rhythm of his usual seductions. Instead his voice pitches low, soft. "Yes." 

"Can I get closer?" 

"Darling you're pressed so tight against me I can barely move." But it lacks the usual levity of his teasing. His arms drop, settle over your shoulders. Holds you close, swaying against him, grossly out of time. 

"Can I kiss you?"

His response catches in his throat. It’s a ‘yes’, of course it is, yes, yes, yes _yes yes_. But for some reason he can’t form the words, can’t push enough air out to manage the sounds. So. Instead he plummets, physics pulling him down. A meteorite colliding, fire and friction as he meets your lips. 

His every nerve is singing. Melody drowning out the lingering chords of his stereo’s last song, body suddenly tuned to perfect pitch. This is exactly what he needed, the struggle of his last few weeks eclipsed by the faultless fit of your mouths together, the precision of your hands against him, resolving that partial puzzle. The air recycled between you, more articulate than all his half-formed thoughts.

He pulls back just enough to whisper against your skin. "So. Should I take it you feel better now?"

You seem surprised for some reason. "Yes. I feel much better."

"Good.” He’s searching now, every flicker on your face. Trying to root out any underlying hesitation. But your gaze is only clear, the provocation of your lust unhidden and sincere. Relief floods through him, makes his voice giddy. “Because I’m about to make you feel _great_."

You laugh, barely a single note before he’s already falling back towards you, eager and devouring. Run your hands up his chest, along the boundary of his shirt before you fasten around his neck and drag him, walking backwards until your legs hit his bed. Grin at him when the jolt forces a break between your bodies and drop to the perfumed sheets below. 

He barely catches himself on his forearms, scant centimetres from your skin. Enclosed so tightly in your space he can feel the warmth muddling between you. His hair tickles your cheek, his panting breath. “Are you ready darling?”

“Oh, Asmo.” Your voice is teasingly despairing, hand curling round his cheek with fond affection. “How could I _ever_ really be ready for you?”

It’s all the disarming invitation he needs. Clothes land on either side of his bed, half-draped over his dresser, thrown careless on the floor to be collected when cooler disposition prevails. He hasn’t touched you in _so long_ , keeps his palms, his fingers against you, always in contact even while he’s peeling all these layers away. His body kept within the pull of your gravity.

You hold him, pressing against his pulse, framing the graceful portrait of his face. Keep him while you rain kisses upwards against his skin. He’s been in a drought for ages and your physical affection is every remedy he’d been searching for; a balm to soothe his cracking confidence. 

He pulls away, just slightly. He _knows_ you have magic, after a kind, but. Whatever this is, that you’re doing here. Now. It reminds him almost of a benediction, that far away reminder of a different existence. 

You look up, curious, confused. The sudden stop in momentum throwing you off-balance, mouth working and soundless.

He cradles your jaw with one hand, fingers swiping carefully against the curve. Staring down at you. Eyes not the heavy-lidded temptation of his passion but wide open. Piercing.

That’s not the usual play. Perhaps that curse (and he doesn’t _care_ what Satan thinks, it _is_ a curse, it _must_ be) is finally interfering with his prowess. Because he _knows_ what he should be doing, knows that while there’s a place for building anticipation this isn’t it. But he just can’t bring himself to adjust. 

He is scrutinizing, probing, chasing some intangible hint in the mystery of his mirrored sin. You meet his stare head on. _There!_ Something, flashing in the depths, the pearl of some captivating treasure . . 

You lean up and kiss him, tongue and heat and that one emotion. Adjacent to lust, slightly familiar but not familiar enough. He is suffocating in it, in his own want, so acute it’s transmuting to need. Desperate, inevitable. 

He can't understand; he's never felt so helpless against a single partner. He wants to crawl into you, glue himself, skin to skin, so he won't be left behind again. 

* * *

“Alright,” Satan says, sighing. He puts his book down on the table. “You’re in an awfully good mood today.”

“Oh, can you tell?” Asmodeus pauses, that humming refrain cut off mid-measure. Fairly _beams_ at him from across the kitchen counter. He had meant to drag out his good news, but he can’t help it. It bursts forth all at once, too eager to share his sudden blessing. “My curse has been lifted!”

“Your . . . _ah_.” Satan regards him thoughtfully, head in hand. “So you aren’t in love, anymore?”

“What? I was _never_ in love,” Asmo says, too ecstatic to be properly annoyed. “I’m talking about the curse. The _curse!_ ”

Satan frowns. “I told you, you weren’t cursed.”

“Of course I was. Not that it matters _now,_ because I’m cured!” He takes a turn around the small space, too much excitement to be contained.

“Right,” Satan says, conceding but looking entirely unconvinced. Well bully for him. “I’ll assume that you had a productive night, then.”

“Yes! In fact, why don’t I make you a cup of tea and I can tell you _allll_ about it . . .”

 _That_ garners an immediate reaction. His brother stands, face impassive. “No thanks. I wouldn’t mind the tea, but I can’t justify the price.”

“So cold!” Asmo grins at his retreating figure as he calls out, “Come find me if you change your mind! I’m sure it’d be much more exciting than your dry little book!”

The kitchen door closes smoothly behind him and he snickers. Really, Satan might as well have stayed. He was making the tea anyway. 

The kettle shrieks, piercing, startling him out of his amused line of thought. Lovely, the water’s all done! He pours, careful, into his transparent rose-glass teapot, the blooming sachet unfurling with beautiful colour. Settles it on his favourite patterned tray, two china cups and a bowl of unrefined sugar. 

He _never_ brings his partners anything in the morning, but he thinks he can make an exception _just this once._ You’re a miracle worker, after all.

And once you’ve had something to drink, maybe you’ll have the energy to go again.

* * *

He invites you with increasing frequency. A flirty wink, a, “We have to make up for lost time, darling!” that has you giggling, falling into his arms with swooning dramatics. The perfect player for his theatrical sensibilities.

And it's nice. Familiar. You've fallen back into a rhythm together, nearly seamless even after so long apart. He'll cast a _look_ at you, or you'll raise your eyebrow just so, and then the two of you are dashing away, trying to find some quiet corner (it doesn't even have to be _private_ , all of the time) where you can lose yourselves in his delightful sin.

Things are almost the same. And isn't that exactly what he wanted?

* * *

"You'll never guess what I got from Madame Scream's—"

He pauses in his doorway, pastry box in one hand. Sets it carefully on the nearest flat surface, a purr already rumbling up his chest. “ _Oh_. And what do we have here?”

You lower your lashes, lips quirking all teeth and temptation, dressed in that bright red lipstick that smears _just so_ against your skin. “I thought it was obvious,” you say, tilting your head at him. “Am I giving you too much credit?”

You're posed _deliciously_ , draped sensually on his bed and wearing nothing but a smile and a sheer, flowing dressing gown, trimmed with the softest marabou feather. Rose petals scattered on every centimetre of his sheets, the conclusion of that long trail from his doorway, over the marble of his floors. Your hands full with sparkling champagne in two fluted glasses. 

He _has_ taught you well. You certainly know how to set a scene.

“You look awfully comfortable.” He reaches out, takes the drink you offer to him. “It’s making me feel _so_ overdressed.

“Well, why don’t you leave that to me?” You place your glass on his bedside table, draw him forwards with your fingers hooked into the belt loops of his pants. Oh. _Very_ assertive, how nice. Your hands flatten at the waistband, crawl just below the hem of his shirt. Light him up with the promise of that live warmth. 

He puts his champagne down without taking a sip. The soft _clink_ of it against the surface is enough to make you look, still tucked between fabric and skin. “Asmo?”

“I don’t want any distractions. Not when I have you here in my bed, looking like _that_.”

“I’m not worried,” you say, lifting an audacious brow. You extract your touch from the lean lines of his stomach, flick blithely at his dangling zipper. “You’d never be able to ignore me.”

“Well, you definitely have my full attention,” he says, voice honeyed and low. 

You grin, feline. “And I can think of a few ways to keep it.”

Then you grab his zipper and pull.

The fabric of his jacket is shucked with startling urgency. Discarded, laughing, to the floor as he slides your decadent gown over your bare skin. Lavishes attention as it comes down, every centimetre from your shoulder, along your arms, over your breast. Too impatient, too hungry to feel that naked press of your bodies to bother with your drinks.

He can't remember a time it's ever felt as effortless as this. You read each other easy as music, that starting melody building to frightening crescendo. He parts only to throw his shirt somewhere off to the side and returns directly to your skin. Presses firm at that space right above your heart and lingers, feels the pulsing beat against his lips. Fast, excited, anticipation already flushing through you.

Your hands crawl their way down his back, nails raking with the lightest touch. Worm your way under his waistband, still only half-undressed. Knead the firm flesh of his ass and pull him close and lock your legs on either side of his hips, the scant distance between you a wall of cold air.

"You'd better take these off, before they get _too_ dirty," you say, sing-song.

"Is that a promise, darling?"

You laugh, force him just that little bit closer and watch the way he gasps. "It's a threat."

He licks his lips, is rewarded by the way you zero in on the motion, the tensing of your thighs around his waist. Threads his hands between your bodies, undoes his fly with deft ease and shimmies his way out of his clothes, still cozy within the cage of your legs. The second he’s free, he presses his erection instant against your dripping heat, ruts his hips and _shivers_ at the too-slick feeling against his sensitive skin.

“You didn’t wait for me,” he accuses. And _oh_ the image of you, spread out on his sheets, head thrown back on his silk pillows. Your hand, dipping between your legs, thinking of _him_. What a delightful appetizer.

You laugh, drag him forwards for another kiss. “I was excited. Can you blame me?”

“How very unfair. You’ll have to make it up to me.” He twists away from your searching mouth, ducks down towards that sweet well above your collarbone that makes you shiver and. Warm metal meets his lips, a strange tang incongruous with the musk of your skin. He pulls back.

There's a chain draped over your neck, whatever pendant attached there hidden beneath the spill of your hair. He follows it, curious, one finger trailing lightly against the delicate links. Hooking underneath to drag it up, up, the pendant slowly revealed as he tugs. _Oh_. "You accessorized? Just for _me?_ "

Your breath stutters in your chest; he's too close not to feel it. "I thought you might appreciate it." But something about the cadence of your words feels insincere.

Dangling from the chain is a stone so pink it should be gaudy, cut into the most delicate rose. Fastened to a rose-gold plate, the sting of magic almost sharp, if not visible. From here he can see the little imperfections; swirls of milky colour that disrupt the shine.

The shape is so distinct. It's very clear who you had in mind.

It hits him, physical. Pressure building like a chemical reaction, energy violent and dangerous and desperate to be released. He lets it out the best way he knows how; falls to your face, drops kisses against your open mouth. Fits himself so tight against you there's no space at all, no distinction between the person of you or him.

"Does it look _that_ good on me?" You gasp, giggling against his cheek. 

It does. "You have impeccable taste darling." He pulls back enough for you to decipher his words, pressed into your skin. "I must be rubbing off on you."

"Well you're rubbing _something_ off on me." He laughs, snorts once (a terrible habit — you must be rubbing off on him too), a sound he would never make in any other company. You squeal, delighted, disgustingly _self-satisfied_ , and pull him up and. 

Your kiss is long and slow and poetry. The bubbles of his favourite champagne, the pulsing beat of the dance floor at the Fall, the glimmer of new highlighter across the angles of his cheek. The rush of new likes on his Devilgram account, the fond pride of watching you choose outfits with shameless, unself-conscious glee, a brand new collection at Majolish. Being the first to get those pretty seasonal drinks, the sound of your name on his lips.

The smile that lights your face when he catches your eye, the feeling of your hand in his. Of your body, above him, underneath him, against him. The flush on your face, the unconcealed desire, the _trust_.

Your fluttering, rapid pulse. 

It's too much. For the first time in his entire lengthy, tangled existence, whatever he is feeling is too much. He isn't ready, he can't handle . . .

He retreats, messy, mouth wet and panting. Ducks down to avoid the confusion in your face at his interruption. Instead he lavishes attention, a form of worship against your form, returning to nothing but base desire and physical sensation. He knows this, _understands_ this. And he’s _damned_ good at it.

You let him ply you to distraction, fumbling as you reach down between you until you have him held carefully in one soft palm. Enclose him within your fingers to pump, once, twice, feeling the little mewling _jerk_ as he responds to the merest provocation. So much and not enough. He noses at the heartbeat in your neck, breathless and wanting. All that promise unfulfilled. 

When he finally slots inside you, it feels like salvation. A belonging so deep it echoes down to bone. He has never fit so perfectly inside anyone before. The satisfaction, the sheer, indescribable high. He comes unraveled at your touch; is captured tight within your walls and it feels like exoneration. Like forgiveness. 

He wants to stay inside you forever.

Every movement is agony. Warmth and then the severe shock of _absence_ , of withdrawing. It’s driving him faster, more desperate than he thinks he’s ever been before. Canting his hips so that he can hit the deepest parts of you, trying to get closer, chasing more, more, _more._ Every thrust is an exclamation, fervent punctuation in the dialogue of your intimacy.

You’re breathless underneath him. Moaning his name like a chant, a special kind of spell that summons ecstasy like rain, a drizzle turning to a downpour. He follows the sounds, helpless, thrilled with the honour of being the one that’s making you come apart. 

You’re convulsing, pulsing; clenching at him so tightly he’s stuttering in his rhythm. And then he stares into the ruin of your face and he’s lost.  
  
  
  


He sighs, almost satisfied. Turns over to his back, sweaty and blissed out, reaches for the glass on his table. 

You laugh at the face he makes, as he sips delicately at the champagne. “Ugh. It’s gone flat.”

“I don’t know what you were expecting,” you say, twirling the curl around his face. “You put it down _hours_ ago.”

“And it should have had the basic _decency_ to stay bubbly,” he retorts, put out. 

You hum, noncommittal, and pop open the tabs of the pastry box he’d almost forgotten by his bedside. It’s an assault of chocolate and fruit, the scents wafting strong the second the cardboard is parted. Pick up a dainty piece between two fingers and hold it out to him, delicate. 

If you’re trying to seduce him a _second_ time, it’s working.

He extends his tongue, pulling the piece in with a sensuous curl that puts a flush on your face. You don’t break his stare even when he takes every opportunity to lick your fingertips, sucking off cocoa and cream. He enjoys hearing the way your breath catches every. Single. Time. Like he’s a miracle you’re constantly experiencing anew. 

He digs into the box and takes something out at random; large, chocolate-covered devilberries that he presses against your swollen, kiss-bruised lips. You’re so _good_ , part eagerly for him to take the whole confection in your mouth, and if that isn’t giving him some lovely new ideas . . .

The pendant glints, catches the light against your skin and draws his focus. He reaches idly for it, pillows the stone on two delicate fingers. You don’t follow his gaze.

"Do you like it that much?" you ask, sotto voce, leaning direct into his hair. This close he can hear the way your pulse is working, pounding almost through your skin. The whisper of your voice is so tender. 

"Of course." And he does. In fact, he likes it _too_ much, likes seeing his motif resting on your skin. So close to your heart. It makes him feel . . . He doesn't know. Smug? Happy? To see evidence of your devotion, another worshiper at his temple of desire? 

No. No, that's not right. But he's getting closer. There's some looming revelation waiting just beyond the horizon. Large and loud and impossible to un-know, once that epiphany arrives. He drops it back, almost weightless against your chest.

"Will you tell me now?" he asks, nuzzling against your breast, the stone in his periphery. 

"Tell you what?"

He's silent for a moment. "Why you stayed away so long? I didn't realize humans had such an impressive amount of willpower.” 

You don’t say anything, and those first familiar strains of worry rear their heads, uncomfortable friends. He tries not to let his uncertainty reveal itself in his next words. “Were you really sick?”

You curl an arm around his waist, draw him close. Drag the tips of your fingers up and down his spine as you consider. 

"It was a _kind_ of sick," you say, unconvincingly. He frowns and you must feel it against your chest, because you hurry to amend, " _Love_ sick."

“So . . . what? You fell in love?”

“I was developing . . . feelings for you. And after you went out of your way to caution me against it,” you say, half-despairingly. You’re trying to lighten up the mood, and he isn’t sure why. 

"Is it _so_ bad to be in love with me?" he asks. It's meant to be petulant; that not quite whine that means a joke so he can match your tone. But his words are low. And soft. The hurt surprising and on the surface.

You card your fingers through his hair. A soothing motion, once the final measure before you both drifted off to sleep. It doesn't comfort him now.

"Yes," you say finally, and the honesty is vicious. "I'd never recover from loving you."

Oh. _Oh_. Well, he can understand that, he thinks. Feels a little surge of satisfaction, eclipsing that strange and sudden hollowness. It's almost a relief. Except . . . 

“Two _months?_ ”

“I _know_ , I’m sorry it took me so long to get myself together, I just—”

“It only took you **two months** to get over _me?_ ”

Absolute silence, as he works himself upright so he can level his incredulous stare at your face. You meet him, clearly shocked, and then. _Laugh_. Rude. He narrows his eyes at you as you struggle to bring yourself down to a manageable chuckle, to silence. 

“Two months is a long time!” You explain, attempting to settle him. “I don’t have nearly as much of it as you do” (and if those words arrest his breath, stop his thoughts for just one moment, who can say), “everything feels so much longer for me! I promise, my feelings were _appropriately_ difficult and devastating to manage.”

He believes you. Your smile wavers just at the end, the straightforwardness in your gaze shifts. And you must still have some feelings, he’s _sure_ of it. But he won’t fault you for so valiantly attempting to overcome them. Still. “Why try to get over it at all?”

You stare at him, astonished. “I just _said_ I’d never get over you.” The confusion on his face has you sighing, leaning down to kiss his temple. “And I won’t be here forever, you know. Our acquaintance has a time limit.”

That’s right. The exchange program is only for a year, isn't it? And how much time do you have left?

He flops back against you, subdued. A sobering thought, the end of your tenure here. Things were already so boring in that brief interlude without you. The thought of you leaving, of those endless empty days of blighting _sameness_ stretching out before him . . . 

Your arm brushes against his cheek as you reach up, press two fingers to the pendant lying on your chest. He can feel that strangled thumping under his ear begin to slow, even out. The flush receding from your face. 

He’ll take any distraction. “Where did you get that?” Majolish? Some other store? Maybe he’ll get one for himself. A matching set.

You follow his eyes, flicking down towards the charm. “Oh. Solomon gave it to me. When I was trying to sort through my feelings he helped me sort of . . . get over them.”

“Oh.” The confession crawls ill-fitting beneath his skin. It wasn’t something you picked out at all. But that’s not right, it’s _his,_ it’s _him._ His colours, his symbol. It feels like a slap, subverting his theme for this purpose. And Solomon . . . Is he so easily replaced? “And how did he feel about you falling immediately back into my arms?”

“He said it’s fine.” Of course he did. He can hardly expect jealousy from a man who’s had a thousand lovers.

The hand that normally curls itself against your waist is dangling listless against your body. Not even the suggestion of a squeeze. 

Usually your silences are satiation and sleepy post-orgasmic pleasure. But now he settles into discomfort, agitated. He doesn’t like being in a competition he won’t win. 

You wiggle out of his embrace and he lets you go. 

You never stay the night, anymore.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” 

He twists in place, still lazing on his rumpled sheets, the cloud of your conversation dulling his afterglow. Unable to muster up the energy even to get cleaned up, just yet. 

“What?” 

You smile at him, and for a shining moment everything is unchanged. A happy, bedded lover saying goodbye at the end of a satisfying tryst. He props himself up on his elbow, watching with curiosity as you reach over the other side of his bed and pull out a long parcel, petal pink and tied with gold ribbons. “This is for you.”

When he opens it, he sees the twin to your robe inside, the exact shade of his pink nail polish. 

“ _L_ _ove_ ,” he gasps, touched. He fingers the feathers and closes his eyes, pretends that this is a night a day ago, a week ago. Before, before, _before_ . “It’s _perfect_.”

* * *

You're at the park, tea in hand, gossiping. And he can't remember what he said, (he was being his usual charming self), but.

The laugh that startles out of you is bright; bursts like juice, sweet and refreshing. Head thrown back, the pale canvas of your throat exposed, the temptation of a blank page. Normally this is where he would lean in, trail his fingers over shaking skin, lead your flush from amusement to the engaging prelude of pleasure. But. 

He doesn’t. 

He can’t even quite decide _why_. There’s no reason to abstain; you’ve been flirting and teasing and making your willingness abundantly apparent. Little touches on his arm, the _delightful_ disregard for personal space. Eyes shining as you keep your gaze trained on him, making him the clear centre of your evening’s universe. 

Instead he props his chin in one hand, watching. Listens to the pealing bell of your happiness and feels a strange warmth settle in his chest; a memory from another life. 

You shake your head, hair flying, hand coming up to wipe the tears from your eyes. Such _carefree_ joy, irrepressible and liberated. He’s struck by a sudden urge, pulling those graceful obstructions from your face, carding your fingers together in one smooth motion as he dips forwards and kisses the wetness on your cheeks. It tastes sweet.

“Asmo!” You frame it like admonishment but your voice is breathy. Eager. The vestiges of laughter still clinging to your words. “What are you doing?”

“What?” He asks, innocent, not pulling back a breath. “I couldn’t let anyone see you like that.” 

You huff; he can feel it brush against his chin. “I was handling it just fine on my own.”

“Shush,” he says. “I’m only trying to clean you up.”

“Can’t have me looking anything less than my best in _your_ company.” You duck just slightly, ignoring his whining protest so you can land a kiss against his jaw. “But I think you must have fixed me up by now.”

“Oh you were done _ages_ ago, darling. We’ve moved on to better things.”

You gasp, giggling, sugary melody. 

And _Hells_. He _loves_ the way that sounds.

* * *

He doesn’t understand how much he craves your touch. It's not just the way you hold him like he’s the most precious thing in your world, the way you keep him pressed against you afterwards, sated and delicious and for some reason still wanting to be close. It's just the _nearness_ of you. The knowledge that you're there, and warm, and in some small way _his_. 

So his hands are always on you. Touching, touching, touching, no matter the place or the company. Brushing your arms together, swinging his legs over your lap, draping himself over your shoulders in an _adorable_ clinging hug. Whenever you're together, as much as he can.

And you let him, because _of course_ you do. You must enjoy it just as much as he does, maybe more. Return every glimmer of affection with perfect and equal reciprocation.

Unless your time has been claimed by someone else.

He pouts the first time you disentangle from the couch, gently shoving his legs towards the floor. Stand and brush your clothes out and wave cheerily at him as you leave to go do something with his brother. Some game that he can't remember the name of ('all these titles are so _long_ Levi, have you never heard of acronyms?' 'Last time I called _Even if I became a snail I would still love you for the rest of my short days and do my best to protect you from all your enemies, despite the fact that it takes me twelve days to follow where you go_ EIIBASIWSLYFTROMSDADMBTPYFAYEDTFTITMTDTFWYG you told me that key smashes don't work in real life'). Pixels stealing all your attention.

And he doesn't think, at first, that he's jealous. Why would he be _jealous?_ You aren't his only lover, not by a long shot. (Although if he hasn't seen many others since you wandered back into his orbit, who can say? It's tacky to keep track of things like that, you know). 

But it's getting harder to smile and see you off, to relinquish your affection to the others. He wants, he wants, he _wants._

He wants _everything_.

* * *

You find yourselves in his room, again. It’s dark, this carnal dream all blackness and sweat and skin. Everything made more real by the reduction to the tangible; only breath and pleasure. 

He worships every spare inch of you. He’s so pleased to have you in his bed, pleased to mark you. Litters hickies in all his favourite places; along your neck, below your jaw. Above your chest and the inside of your thigh. Places both visible and not, a legend that can be used to decipher the history of his attentions. 

When you’re here, fitted so tight against him, you are _his_. 

You compared him to the sun, once. But you’re the one that might be a star, calling everyone into your gravity. The other exchange students, his brothers. Him. And in these moments it feels like he’s stolen you straight from the sky, ripped you out of the distant night. A crime of Celestial magnitude for just these glancing, glorious beats. 

What will he do when he can’t reach out and take you, anymore?

The thought is intrusive, distracting. He should be focusing on _you,_ on the notes he can play to make you collapse in perfect melody. Instead he's watching you shake underneath him, and you're crying out his name, you're feeding his ego, his desire, making him inflate with warmth and pleasure and for some reason it's suddenly _not enough_. You're making the sweetest sounds, calling him, telling him how _good_ he is, how much you _want_ him. Heaping praises that _should_ be making him bow under the pleasure, singing through his skin with that oxytocin high. 

He can't stop _staring_ at you. Tracing every dimension of your face like he's committing it to memory, like he could ever forget the way you looked twisted underneath him, naked and vulnerable and so _sweet._ Like he can't see you every time he closes his eyes; laughing or pensive or even mildly annoyed.

Like you haven't carved out a home for yourself, somewhere in the shriveled recess of his chest. 

You keep babbling praises but you aren't saying the one thing he wants to hear. 

_I love you._

The realization is messy in its brutality, cracks open his ribs with wrenching force to expose the pulp of his heart within. He never, he _can't_ —

He didn't want to know.

You're cresting your ecstasy, shuddering apart as you ride your orgasm while he continues to thrust into you, guiding you heady through your pleasure and. He hasn't slowed at all but he can feel moisture tracking down his face. His throat; tightening, breaths coming shorter, faster. Each gasp of air sharp as a knife. He is a demon-shaped hole punched into the fabric of the universe. A shuddering, aching void.

You're understandably distracted, pulsing through the aftershocks, one arm thrown over your eyes. But he's stopped, still inside you. Interrupted his pace without driving to his pleasure, without even the merest _suggestion_ of it. 

He's never done that before.

You look at him, confused, your eyes so _soft_ with feeling and the second you meet his gaze it all comes out at once. 

He starts to cry.

The second that first hiccuping sob breaks through the tight line of his lips you're struggling upwards, alarmed. Pull right off of him, (still, _absurdly_ hard), check him over for injuries (cruelly _adorable_ — as though you could harm a Prince of Hell). "Asmo, are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," he says, gasping, and _damn_ if that isn't the most unconvincing he's ever sounded. "You just squirted in my eyes, it's fine. I'm okay."

You furrow your brow, obviously unconvinced. (So it's not his best performance, sue him). Gather him into his arms and hold him tight. You press his face against your chest, your heartbeat direct baseline against his ear. 

His favourite position.

You let him cry himself out in silence, fingers working against his crown. Wait until he's reduced to miserable sniffling and pull his silk top sheet off the edge of the bed; kicked off early on and relatively clean. Drape him in it and gift a kiss to his temple and tell him to wait for just one minute. You're going to draw him a bath.

His hand shoots out so fast he almost doesn't realize he's done it until you're staring at his strangled grip on your wrist. There's a second's suggestion of a wince, a pinch in your face that you smooth over. Quick, practiced enough to fool a human.

But not him.

He releases you like you’ve been baptised. "Sorry."

You don't move away. 

" _Asmo._ " You straddle his lap. Light, relaxed, not pressing up against him. No expectation, no fiery, urgent touch. Just take his face carefully in both your hands and wipe his tears with your thumbs. Bend him down so you can sprinkle kisses at his temples. Over the ridge of his brows. Down his nose. Across the high bones of his cheeks. 

And then a fleeting sweep with _excruciating_ tenderness. Right against his lips.

He curls a hand tentatively around your waist, chases that touch again. Again. _Again._ Soft and sweet and so different from all the evening's opening frantic kisses that it burns. 

"Come on." You wiggle out of his embrace and his hand _barely_ clutches at you, before he lets you go. You only thread your fingers through his and draw him up. Guide him to the bath, and how _pathetic_ is this, being shepherded around in his own room like a child, but. 

He doesn't hate it.

You sit him on the edge of the tub with you, legs dangling into the water as it fills. Lavender salts and Verukan honey, a drop of Silkworm souls ( _so good_ for the skin, you remembered). You take a washcloth, wet it with the cleanser sitting by his sink. The one for puffy skin of course. 

You wash his face clear and turn off the water, settle him between your legs and work through his hair. Your hands are too warm and too firm, massaging gently over his shoulders, along his arms. Into the muscle of his back, so dangerously relaxing he could drown. Soap and oil and tenderness.

It almost makes him cry all over again.

You wrap him in his softest robe, dry his hair. Lead him back to his bed without bothering with your own. 

When you tuck him into the covers, he feels his heart stop, leaping into his throat. He doesn't think he'll survive if you leave. He doesn't have the audacity to ask you to stay.

Because you're _right_ , in the end. You both know it. 

In a few more weeks you'll be going home.

He closes his eyes so he doesn't have to watch your retreating back. Prepares to curl into himself, small and anguished, the second he hears the closing of the door.

Instead there's a rustling. You shift the covers back and snuggle in. Open your arms, inviting, and he falls into you like sleep.

"Will you tell me what's wrong?" you whisper, your pulse steady against his ear. It is the beat of his own heart, reflected back at him. Outside his chest and wrong and _beautiful_ _. Perfect._

He laughs, hoarse. "It's nothing. I just think I might be getting sick."

**Author's Note:**

> If you're sleeping around please be safe okay, none of this just getting worked up and going for it.


End file.
